


Awkward Encounter

by demonofdiscord



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-31 02:51:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6452545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonofdiscord/pseuds/demonofdiscord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-Romance, Pre-Val Royeaux, Haven</p><p>Solas' first encounter with Ellana's father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Awkward Encounter

“What makes you so certain it was an ‘artifact’ that triggered the Breach?“ Ellana cocked her head with a curious expression. The question caught Solas off guard. He looked as though he were about to speak but as soon as his lips parted they closed once more, his hesitation would have been obvious to anyone not caught up with entertaining a thousand other questions. Ellana seemed to make no note of his lack of a response. “Or that it was triggered from this side of the Veil? Is it due to the direction of the pull? Drawing beings native to the Fade in to the physical realm as opposed to drawing beings native to the physical realm to the Fade?”

“Yes,” Solas managed, resisting the temptation to sigh in relief that the curious elf had managed to provide an answer for him.

“If it were an artifact small enough, could it be I brought it in to the Fade?" Ellana shook her head in frustration. "I don’t remember what transpired. It could still be there. That would be bad. The Fade is infinite. Finding it would be difficult." Difficult was quite the understatement. "Unless the mark is drawn to it perhaps? Should I make a note to search for it?”

“If you like,” Solas couldn’t help but smile at Ellana’s eagerness to assist him. It wasn’t a smile brought on by successful deceit so much as genuine surprise at being seen as worthy of listening to. It had been few and far between where mortal elves sought to do so.

“Though that would punch a hole in my ‘I didn’t actually survive the blast’ theory.” Ellana frowned. She had grown quite fond of that theory in all honesty.

“You didn’t… survive?” Solas furrowed a brow. “Would you not then be here?”

A smile washed over Ellana’s features. “Well it’s - alright. So, you saw the Temple of Sacred Ashes, we both did, and you saw the demons pulled through from the rifts, they had bodies. Bodies provided by the Fade, bodies that translated in to the physical realm, here. Whatever this is,” Ellana gestured toward the mark on her hand, “I think it didn’t bond to my body, the one I had before, so much as my… soul? Essence? Spirit? Couldn’t say, but that immaterial bit, whatever it is, and that is what prevented me from, well, moving on, to… oblivion? The Void? The ‘Beyond’?” Ellana hesitated. She sounded ridiculous. “I’m not making much in the way of sense, am I?”

Solas paused in consideration. “It’s an interesting thought. Your… spirit recreated your form from memory, you exited the Fade through a rift with said memory, and here you are.” Which would mean his focus was still in the Waking world. But it wasn’t sentient, it wouldn’t be apt to wander. And surely Corypheus could not have survived. Someone must have taken it, but _who_?

Ellana’s eyes flashed with excitement. “Exactly! And that would explain why - why I feel newer. I don’t know how to go about making sense of what ‘newer’ feels like. I mean, _I_ don’t feel newer, I feel the same, it’s my body that’s newer, even though it seems the same” Ellana glanced down at the curious mark, “Except the glowy bit, that feels… ancient. Then again, something about you seems… older.” Struck by Ellana’s observation, Solas once again felt himself at a loss for how to respond. Ellana regretted the words as soon as she spoke them. “Not that you’re old! I didn’t - it’s just - forget I said that.”

Managing a laugh, Solas shook his head. “Older than you, I imagine.”

“Right, I’m - I’m beginning to grate on you, aren’t I? You can say, and I’ll - I’ll go,” giving Solas an out seemed only polite.

He should have said yes. Yes, she was grating, yes she should leave and cease her questions. It would have been better to appear cold and aloof than to risk her stumbling across truths she ought not learn of while he acted as a spring board for vocalizing her ideas. Yet there was something deeply endearing about her questioning nature that had him nearly enraptured. “Hardly,” said Solas with a remarkable lack of hesitation. “I find your thoughtfulness refreshing.” He was met with a chuckle.

“You’re being kind.” Ellana shook her head, her eyes darting downwards as she attempted to wish away what she was certain was an oncoming blush.

“You’ve given me reason to be,” again, without hesitation. It was good to ingratiate himself to the one who bore his mark, certainly. Still, Solas found himself with a near overwhelming desire to chastise himself when he failed to keep a grin at bay. He looked away, thinking of how best to excuse himself to collect his thoughts. It was then that he noticed another elf looking on at the two of them with interest. A man Solas would guess to be in his forties or fifties, it was hard to tell, he wore the clothing of an Inquisition Scout. Solas’ eyes caught his and the man took his acknowledgement as permission to walk forward.

When Ellana noticed Solas’ attention was elsewhere, she too turned, only to be greeted with a sight she had never even thought to consider. “Papae?” Her eyes widened and she grinned. What was he doing here? As Ellana rushed to greet her father, Solas tensed, uncertain.

“You’re here!” Ellana embraced her father making no note of his curious lack of vallaslin. Was her father not Dalish? Immediately Solas saw Ellana begin to fawn over her father, in a more maternal fashion than he would expect from a child to a parent. “Oh! Are you hungry? Thirsty? Tired! You must be tired. There’s tea, oh! Varric Tethras, the author, he’s here. You should meet.

  
“Ellana - “ her father attempted to protest, but he was unable to finish his sentence.

“I’ll make up a bed for you, fetch some wine, red of course, I know you don’t care for white, not that I’m saying you should drink! I have to inform Cassandra you’re here, are you planning on staying? You - you don’t have to answer that. You can stay as long as you like - or leave, I know you’re busy, you’re always busy. Not that I don’t understand, I do! I - it’s just very good to see you.” Ellana finally drew a breath.

“There’s no need to fuss over me, it’s enough you’re alive and well. I intend to have words with my sister, she never should have pressed you to make such a perilous journey, and on your own no less.” Ellana’s father glanced toward Solas passively before returning his attention to his daughter. “Was I interrupting?”

“Oh, well, yes, but you’re a welcome interruption! It’s very good to see you, I can’t stress that enough. Solas and I were discussing, well, lots of things. Ah! I should introduce you two. Solas, my father Cyril. Cyril, my friend Solas.”

“Friend? And how long has this Solas been a friend of yours?” Cyril appeared ever so slightly amused.

Ellana’s cheerful expression faltered. “Friend was presumptuous, wasn’t it?” She looked on at Solas apologetically. She had overstepped.

Of those Solas had encountered upon his awakening, Ellana was the easiest to see as a friend. “I would not attempt to refute such a claim,” he returned Ellana’s gaze with a half smile that gave her some comfort.

“Surely not, friendship with the Herald of Andraste is surely a valuable asset for one surrounded by those in service of the Chantry,” Cyril’s lip curled slightly, the sight of his daughter surrounded by so many championing a religion used to justify denying elves their personhood in addition to being used to justify their murder and mistreatment did not sit well with him.

“Indeed.” Surprised at how savvy Cyril appeared, Solas supposed he shouldn’t be. Cyril was after all, Ellana’s father.

“Not you too,” of all of the people who would be inclined to refer to her as the ‘Herald of Andraste’, Ellana never would have believed her own father would be among them.

“Ellana, be thankful the shemlen have chosen to see you as benevolent in nature. They could have just as easily cast you off as a demon wearing the face of a woman lost to the explosion at the Conclave. Were you without this ‘mark’ I’ve heard rumor of, they’d have likely done just that.” Cyril cast down a glance at Ellana’s hand, and his eyebrows furrowed. What had his sister been thinking? Ellana had been designated First a mere eight months prior, would not one of their hunters make for a better spy? Or perhaps one of the elven mages that had fled the Circles and sought asylum. Ellana, of all people? This should have happened.

“Or continue to attribute her with being the cause of said explosion.” Distracted, Cyril made no note of Solas’ addition.

Ellana proceeded to roll her eyes. “As if I’m any less a prisoner with my hands unbound.” Leliana had told her she was free to leave, but Ellana knew that to be a lie. Circumstances being what they were, Ellana was less than inclined to dwell on them. “Well, since you two are off to such a great start I’ll have Josephine informed of your arrival."

Solas thought to protest, but refrained. He couldn’t put his finger on just why he felt a degree of anxiety regarding the situation at hand. Both he and Cyril watched as Ellana walked off, eventually disappearing behind the doors of Haven’s chantry. When she did so the two appeared to contemplate one another in a decidedly uneasy silence. It was Solas who decided to break it.

“Are you… Dalish?”

“I am.”

“… Ah.” _This was going terribly._

After another uncomfortable pause Cyril seemed to take pity on him. “You’re curious as to why I do not adorn vallaslin?”

“I am.”

Cyril nodded, more to himself than to Solas. “I had Dirthamen’s for many years, I removed them. Less conspicuous for travel.” Solas knew of few clans that utilized vallaslin removal beyond those who did not complete the ritual in its entirety. He frowned.

“Does your clan not disapprove?” Solas’ question was met with a light-hearted laugh.

“My clan roams the Free Marches, comprised of escaped slaves and circle mages alike, we’re no stranger to trauma. Vallaslin is painful, it’s magic. For those fleeing Tevinter in particular, having experienced magic only through the lens of cruelty, it’s understandable why they would decline. Those who wish to obtain their vallaslin are free to do so once they come of age, as my daughter can attest to. For those who do not, that is their right, they need not offer explanation.” Cyril’s words were not entirely true. For those of the families who’ve utilized vallaslin as a rite of passage for generations, undergoing the ceremony was indeed expected.

“An interesting approach.” While Solas’ features were impassive, he found himself impressed at hearing of clan Lavellan’s willingness to accommodate those other clans - one in particular he had learned of through his agents - would have looked down upon.

“You disapprove?” Cyril offered, as yet another silence grew between them.

“No.” There was an acute bitterness Solas felt when looking upon the Dalish who wore symbols once synonymous with slavery. That the practice endured, albeit in a vastly different context, while so much else had been lost or forgotten was disheartening. Still, that clan Lavellan did not deny those without vallaslin was pleasantly surprising. Both of them found themselves looking back at the chantry, both silently wishing for Ellana to emerge. Solas’ eyes darted toward the tavern. Undoubtedly where Varric could be found. Perhaps he could redirect Cyril there.

“I take it you’ve had less than friendly encounters with Dalish in the past.” Cyril’s gaze didn’t waver from the chantry doors.

“You are correct.” As stiff and uncomfortable as the unfolding encounter may have been, most of Solas’ experiences had been far worse.

Cyril’s attention returned to Solas. “I can’t imagine my daughter being among them.” Cyril caught a glimpse of Solas’ resulting smile, though he said nothing.

“Ellana is… “ tried as he might, Solas couldn’t help but trail off. What _was_ she?

“Refreshing?” At Cyril’s suggestion, Solas paled. Cyril hadn’t just been watching, he’d been listening.

Solas cleared his throat and nodded. “Indeed.” A change in subject was deeply needed. “You are not a mage.”

“Nor was Ellana’s mother. Mine was, as is my sister.” The two found there eyes wandering elsewhere once more. Cyril let out a sigh, looking over Solas with an unreadable expression. “Is your family particularly strong in magic? You seem surprised.”

“You could say that.”

“Would I be correct in saying that?”

Ah, _that’s_ where she gets it from. Solas shifted uncomfortably. “… Yes.” Better to move on to something inconsequential, like the weather, or how numerous nugs and fennecs were in the region. Anything but - “Is your sister a dreamer as well?”

Cyril had not expected that question in the slightest. “No. Our mother was, Istimae. Sadly, the two never had a chance to meet.” Solas inwardly cursed at himself before bracing for the question he knew he had prompted. “She told you she was dreamer?”

“She did.”

“I’m curious what prompted her to do so.”

Taking a breath, Solas brought his gaze to meet Cyril’s. “I too maintain a conscious presence in the Fade.”

“Dreamers are quite rare.”

“Unfortunately so.” Why was Ellana taking so long?

“You escaped one of the Circles?”

“No. I have not.”

At this, Cyril’s eyes narrowed. He wasn’t sure what to make of the man before him. “A dreamer, presumably not Dalish, and never imprisoned by templars?”

“I am not Dalish, nor have I been imprisoned by templars. I offered my aid against the Breach, they were desperate enough to accept.” Solas worried then that he had sounded too well rehearsed.

  
“Yes, the Breach, the mark, it’s remarkable luck my daughter happened across someone so knowledgeable.” Cyril’s words were rife with suspicion. Solas thought perhaps it was fortuitous he had no encounters with the elves of clan Lavellan prior to then.

“It’s remarkable luck your daughter survived the Conclave.” His tone had been too defensive, and too accusatory toward Ellana. Cyril offered a discontented ‘hmph’ as Solas’ eyes wandered back toward the chantry doors, gladdened Ellana hadn’t been within ear shot.

“Earlier, I overheard Ellana asking about matters regarding this ‘Breach’, the Fade, would you claim that your area of expertise?”

“I would.” It bothered Solas that he could not see just where Cyril’s line of questioning was leading to.

“And you’re self taught?”

“I would not consider myself to be entirely self taught, no.”

Cyril surveyed Solas for what seemed like an eternity before nodding - seemingly more to himself than to Solas. “You have secrets. You’re entitled to them.” It appeared Cyril had decided to take pity on him, Solas’ discomfort was obvious. “It does not escape my notice that you likely played a role in my daughter’s survival and for that you have my thanks.” All Solas could think to respond with was a curt nod. “I shall leave you be.”As Cyril turned toward the tavern, Solas let out a massive sigh of relief.


End file.
